


Envy All You Need

by AltoidMint (MintyFresh2Death)



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Masturbation, Pining, frank talk of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 21:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20627603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintyFresh2Death/pseuds/AltoidMint
Summary: Sayaka considers what sex means to her.She also considers a love confession.





	Envy All You Need

Sex was nothing to her. 

It wasn’t something that she held sacred. She didn’t think of sex and dream of the emotional joining of two bodies, extensions of two minds, becoming one in synchronization. She didn’t consider sex as making love, and she didn’t consider sex before marriage a particularly unholy thing. 

Sex wasn’t moral. Sex wasn’t good or bad, black or white. It was just sex. Like pain, like agony, the pleasure was just something to experience, get past, and then compartmentalize afterward. She didn’t pine after sex like a lovelorn princess up in her ivory tower, wanting to be swept away by the tides of someone to rescue her from the life she’s always known. Sure, she had a sex drive, but it was like hunger. She could ignore it for a lot longer than anyone would ever be aware of. 

So, Sayaka has had sex before. She’s had sex plenty of times actually, with many different people. Most of them were rough on her. But her body and her sensuality are nothing but a currency where that’s concerned, so it didn’t feel like much of anything. Handmarks around her throat, the bruising press of thumbs into the sides of her neck, and all the hitting and the grabbing, they were merely things to hide and move on from. It’s no different the more it happens. 

When she’s at Hopes Peak, it’s like she’s living in a different universe altogether. People are so sweet, and they seem so juvenile and unsure of themselves. Most of them avoid the topic of sex like it’s a dirty word, or like it’s something to be ashamed of. And Sayaka is never sure if she’s supposed to be proud or disgusted with herself knowing that she likely had more experience in that department than anyone else she’s met. 

She doesn’t want to be a virgin, that much she knows, because that kind of naive ignorance is what gets people killed in her industry. Being pure is a hot commodity, that’s why the men in charge keep shooting lower and lower and covering it up as much as they possibly can. It’s a disgusting trade that she’s witnessed, and been a victim of herself. 

She doesn’t think being pure is all that special, anyways. 

But, for Hajime, she thinks she’d like to be pure. Or at least pretend to be.

He looks at her with such a soft gaze. He talks to her like she’s a person on his level. Not looking down on her, but not admiring her so much that it felt like they were in two separate realms. He spoke snidely sometimes, with a sarcastic smirk and a tilt of his head. And she can’t help but laugh until she chokes at the jokes he makes. He makes himself emotionally available to her in a way that feels so genuine and so endlessly kind. 

They haven’t spoken about sex. They haven’t even spoken about dating, and Sayaka dreads the day she has to tell him that her contract forbids her from even trying to. She dreads the day that they’ll both have to pull back. He’s the only person in her life she thinks she’d ever make the jump for. The only one in the whole wide world she’d risk everything for. Her whole career could die in a great blaze of fire for it, she’s sure. 

If she had the option to be pure, for just one day, just to experience it, she’d go to him first without a shadow of a doubt. She’d take him out somewhere and not worry about the consequences of what openly dating someone would do to her career. She’d kiss him on the cheek, the lips, the throat, and tell him all the things she loved about him in all the little ways. 

Like how his skin was tanner than everyone else's, and how strong his jaw was, and how his eyes could twinkle with mirth she’s never been so blessed to see before she met him. And how his arms were strong enough to hold her tightly, but not keep her trapped with him. And how his voice sounded when he sang for her in little voice lessons she tried her best to savor the taste of. And how his hands held her own with a steady assuredness of someone who had known her all her life. No one else could measure up to that. 

Given the option, the ability, that intensely gratifying experience of being free for a mere day, she would do everything in her power to express just how much his kindness meant to her. She’s not sure if he’d even want to take that purity if she pretended to have it. He seemed a little too chivalrous for his own good. Too concerned about her well-being instead of worrying about his own. 

But, then again, he was also a bit of a romantic. If she angled her head just right, confessed these thoughts that knocked around her head at night and made her chest grow tight with the squeezing pain of pining, perhaps he’d kiss her. Perhaps he’d let her push him onto the bed and find out what making love really meant. It couldn’t just be emotional sex, right? It had to be more than that. It had to be special and beautiful and it had to be theirs. 

But, there’s the problem again. She’s not pure. Would he still care for her if he knew? Would he still look at her with such adoration lining the edges of his gaze? Would he think less of her, would he feel shame for thinking so highly of someone so rotten from the inside out? What did sex even mean to him? What would it mean to him once he learned what it all meant to her? 

And, if he were to see the scars of cigarette burns littering a specific spot on her thigh, would he suddenly find her undesirable? She would if she were him. 

She knows he’s a good person. Good people deserve to be treated well by other good people. Sayaka knows that’s being selfish by trying to hog him all to herself. Because she has never been a good person. She is a greedy selfish mess of a human clutching the things that somehow stay in her orbit close to her chest and refusing to let them go. 

He doesn’t know that he deserves better than what she can offer him. If he were to ever care for her in the way she cares for him, she doesn’t know how long he’d be able to stand it. She can only give him love in hidden places. She can only kiss him in the dark. She can only hold his hands and speak softly to him when no one is looking. She has to be careful with him if she wants them to last long enough to matter. She has to keep her head down and not let on that she even knows him. 

So when they sit together in the courtyard, and he’s smiling at her in that way he always does where one side goes up just a little bit higher than the other, her mind wanders. She dreams of kissing him so hard his face bruises and his lips grow red and puffy. She considers how pliant he’d be if she were to push and pull and prod and be the one in control for once. She wonders how gentle he’d be if she gave him the reigns, or if he’d be just a little bit rough with her. She’d like anything he’d give her if only she could open her mouth and  _ confess _ . 

But confessing love is for fools who trust too hard. 

Saya and Teruyo, fellow members of her idol group, were those kinds of fools. They loved each other so dearly and so tightly that wounding one would equally wound another. That’s a kind of vulnerability, a kind of grotesque weakness, that Sayaka has no interest in pursuing. She doesn’t want to hand over that power to anyone. She can’t possibly hand over that trust and let them swipe at her with everything they had. Trust is a liability, trust is difficult. 

And yet, every bone in her body is screaming at her to tell him that she would lay down her life for him if she had to. To tell him that every night where she’s stroking a picture of her mother’s face, she wonders if she would’ve liked him. To let him know that the bitter ache in her chest, spreading out and clutching onto her ribs like vines was all for him. The waver in her voice when she sings the vapid empty love songs of her idol group now has a focus, a purpose, a subject of affection. Her entire world is recontextualized around how he makes her feel like the only person in a room full of people, and yet so at home. 

She’d much rather he turn on her. Use her up like a toy, and leave her be, rather than stare at her as if she hung the stars in the sky. When fans stare at her, it’s inspiring, a drive to move forward and continue committing herself to the harsh world of the idol industry, where not a shred of her real self remains. But when he does it, it’s so fulfilling. 

It’s as if she’s gone hungry all her life, and she didn’t even know it until she felt full to bursting. 

She knows what cliches have to play out in order to confess a love for someone. She knows what route to follow to feed into Hajime’s inner romantic fool. She knows it’s going to be difficult for her and she can't even give him the kind of the sickeningly sweet big public romantic gesture he deserves to have. He deserves to have something that screamed to the world that he was loved and that he was everything that anyone could ever want and that he was all  _ hers _ . 

But she can’t really do that for him. She can’t serenade him in public with a sweet overture. She can’t hug him tightly and sob that he was the only person she had ever considered risking her entire career for. The only one who could even come close to knowing who she really was under the shiny idol glitter and veneer. 

So she waits until Valentines' Day. She can’t cook properly, or at all really. She can only truly make rice, stir fry, and anything microwavable because that was all that she was raised off of. Or, what she raised herself on. So, she buys the most expensive chocolates that she can manage. Something rich and smooth and delicious to bite into, something ordered special and made special for him, wrapped in gold foil and tied with a bow. It’s nowhere near as good as homemade chocolates would have been, and she hopes the message won’t be misconstrued. He’s not just a good friend to her, and she wants him, desperately, to know this. 

She can’t innocuously place it on his desk, because that’s not how confession chocolates work. She can’t just leave it there for the world to see, because she has her name tied to it. And she’s been so painfully obvious and careless with her emotions that she’s sure it wouldn’t take much for anyone to figure out just who it was coming from. Besides, it’s risky walking towards his classroom anyways. 

So she skips class that day. She doesn’t even want to pick up all the friendly chocolates left on her desk when there’s the chance she could miss her shot. She waits by his dorm towards the end of the day, clutching the box of chocolates close to her chest and begging her thoughts not to run wild. Begging herself to stay put together, begging herself not to let things slip. 

Togami passes her in the hallway. He doesn’t even spare her a glance, but she can still feel the sting as if he had. She never liked his attitude to begin with, but it still makes her blood boil when she thinks about it. Too many things about him reminded her of a girl she tried not to think about anymore. A girl she pushed down the stairs. 

She waits a long time before he shows up. 

It’s agonizing. The waiting. It’s the worst part of it all. The anticipation and the rising tension in her gut. The terror that he won’t show up at all. The confusion about how long it’s all taking. What’s keeping him, huh? What was keeping him so long? Maybe she should have asked him to come with her to the courtyard. But no, that would be too obvious. She’d be giving herself away too soon. 

So she keeps waiting. 

And waiting. 

And waiting. 

And only when the sun begins to set, when everyone else is already out and about or turning in, does she give up. 

She places her golden gift by his door and has to force herself to walk away. She has to walk as if her feet weren’t made of lead and her heart of stone. She has to march herself back to her own dorm. She has to sit in the cold and empty silence of that lonely space and try not to let her own dark thoughts terrorize her until she sleeps. 

She can’t sleep, she physically can’t. 

She stares up at her ceiling and dreams of kissing him so hard his entire face bruises. She dreams of dipping her tongue in his mouth and tasting the forbidden fruit resting there. She dreams of holding his hair tight in her grasp and pulling his head back to expose the hard lines and curves of his neck. She dreams of laying her teeth on his pulse point and biting down just enough to leave a mark but not enough to split him open. She dreams of squeezing her thighs around his torso and trapping him against her with her legs. She dreams of calling him by his name, his first name, not by Hinata-kun, and the shuddering gasps she’d get in response. 

She obsesses over him, pines like a fool after that beautiful normalcy that was so unobtainable. 

But if he wanted her to, she’d be anything he wanted her to be. She’d fit any mold he gave her. She’d do anything to keep him clutched close to her chest. She’d starve herself, she’d forbid herself from sex, or at least pretend to. She knows the reality she’s in will never live up to the mountains of fantasies building up and coiling in her head. But she wants to hope. She wants to hope he’d still love her even if he saw that ugly cruel person hiding just beneath the surface. The kind of person who’d rather kill another person than even risk her own survival. 

It’s not the most shameful masturbation session she’s had. It doesn’t take long until she’s cumming under her hands with the thought of what his moan might sound like based off of the frustrated groans she’d sometimes hear from him if she talked with him just right. Her hips raise off the bed with a stutter, an explosion happening behind her eyes. 

She eventually does fall asleep and skips the next day's classes too. 

And then she’s back at work performing in the weeks after, bidding herself to forget about it. 

So maybe it wasn’t love, and it’s just an unnatural obsession. 

To her, there was very little difference. 

**Author's Note:**

> let me have this i just really fucking like this ship


End file.
